


Second-hand forgiveness

by Arabwel



Category: Hellblazer, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Crossdressing, Drag Queens, F/M, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), M/M, Making Out, Peter in drag, References to Monty Python, References to Smoking, you can guess where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious shop appears in Beacon Hils just in time for Halloween. Chris wear a trench coat, Peter is in high heels. </p><p>or, the one where people get possessed by their costumes like that one Buffy episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second-hand forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, everybody!
> 
> Much thanks to everyone who has helped me with this fic <3
> 
> Special thanks go to Eaddy Mays for discussing Victoria's Halloween habits on Periscope!
> 
> For the Teen Wolf Bingo squares "Glitter" and "Scott McCall"

Chris is not sure how he got himself roped into this. 

No, he knows exactly how he was roped into this. It was his daughter’s quivering lower lip that made him say sure, he would volunteer to help corral the children on Halloween. It made sense after all—having _competent_ adults chaperoning the high school students escorting the middle schoolers was a layer of protection when something inevitably went wrong - and it would end early enough that he’d have a chance to do a patrol later on, make sure nothing was lurking. 

It was not until _after_ he’s signed up, she tells him he is expected to wear a costume. 

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He is certain he has... something he can turn into a costume, something that’ll let him stay discreetly armed even when the deputy who’d been helping with the sign ups had given him the stink-eye. If Stilinski hadn’t been clued in by now, Chris has a feeling he’d be even more of a persona non grata at the station, but the fact that he goes out to have a few beers with the boss on occasion has cooled the deputies’ heels a lot. Stilinski’s guys trust his judgement.

But he’s still not happy about the idea of dressing up. He hasn’t done so in years, not since Allison had no longer required an escort when trick-or-treating (well, one she was aware of at any rate). Vic was not fond of Halloween, preferring to stay home when Allison was small but once their daughter had gotten into the spirit of things, Vic had gone all out on decorating the house and handing out full size candy bars even if she refused to wear a costume - openly wearing her weaponry, both guns and knives, didn’t really count. 

The thought of his wife makes him pause, makes him stop walking and close his eyes for a moment. The grief that washes over him is less intense than it was a year ago, a scar that aches more than it bleeds. But she had made her choice and all he can do is cherish her memory and move on. 

When he opens his eyes, he blinks. He hasn’t seen this shop before—it bills itself as a _vintage_ shop, but from what he can see in the window it’s just another thrift shop, the likes of which have been popping up all around Beacon Hills lately. That one would have appeared practically next door to the dry cleaners is not surprising at all. 

There’s a row of coats on old mannequins in the window—an old 1940s greatcoat in the middle, flanked by futuristic-looking leather coats, but it’s the old tan trenchcoat that draws his eye. It’s been years, he realizes, since he last read the comics, but the flash of memory to a Halloween long past, well before Allison, before Victoria, makes him think he’s got his solution. 

Chris takes a deep breath and steps in, noting there’s no chime on the door. 

*** 

It is a testament to how long he has been away that instead of being slapped, the greeting Peter gets from Lola is a big bear hug that would drive the breath from his lungs even if his face wasn’t buried in her ample fake bosom. 

“Oh Petey, I thought we’d never see you again!”

Peter is most decidedly _not_ blushing as Lola and the rest of the fabulous ladies who have been frequenting the Jungle forever converge on him like he’s a pretty little twink with good cheekbones who’s wandered in for the first time. He would know, he’s been there. And even though it’s been almost twenty years, even though Peter’s filled out, grown a beard, burned to death twice (not that they know it) he’s still _Petey_ to them. Not that he would admit to it, but it feels good, to be welcomed back.

He was only supposed to come in to see if the new bartender whom Mason had described as “Hot but he’s just like, _off_ ” was actually something to worry about or just your garden variety chickenhawk who could be persuaded to migrate elsewhere; somehow by the time Lola and Shawna are done with him, he’s agreed that of course he will come out with them on Halloween, how could he say no? Because it has been a long time since they have seen him, but even longer since they’ve seen _Pippa._

It’s not like it’s a hardship to spend an evening dressed to the nines, commanding the attention of all those around him like only a queen can. Even with the knowledge that he’d have to spend some of the evening with the ragtag group of children that was clustered around his nephew and the _true alpha_ (never say Peter didn’t know how to pick them!), the thought of watching Chris Argent choke on his tongue like the bigoted closet case he is was viscerally satisfying. 

Not to mention, if they are occupied with gossipping about his supposed deviancy there will be so many other things they would not be paying attention to. He was certain no one had caught on to what he’d done with Blake, but it never hurt to be paranoid. 

After all, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. 

Peter smiles and nods and takes another sip of his G&T and lets Lola tell him about this _marvellous_ little shop she knows that would have the the _perfect_ waistcoat for what Peter has in mind. 

*** 

Despite the fact that his little name tag says he’s Dr. Doolittle, the little girl dressed up as Princess Hulk calls Scott “Dr. McCall” when he makes sure her stuffed rabbit is okay. 

Behind him, Mr. Argent is terrifying another group of volunteers into shape; Scott’s pretty immune to that tone of voice by now, since it’s clear no actual weapons are being drawn. Although he’s not sure if that’s how it’s gonna stay if someone else tells Mr. Argent that he’s too old to be Castiel. 

It’s kind of hilarious, considering Scott's heard him mutter _who the fuck is Castiel_ under his breath before saying _wrong trenchcoat brigade, luv_ in a really atrocious British accent. Scott doesn’t watch that show but Stiles does, and Stiles is also the one who told him who Mr. Argent is supposed to be. After he’d taken several photos and sent them to Erica, because in Canada or not she should not miss this according to Stiles. 

Scott’s musings are interrupted by a sharp elbow to his side; he turns to look at Stiles in his Red Riding hood costume and blinks. “What?”

“Look, over there!” Stiles is pointing across the lawn, to where a tall woman in a top hat and tails and wow those were long legs in fishnets was making her way towards them. There is something familiar about the way she _prowls_ , something predatory and dangerous. 

“She’s dressed as Zatanna!” Stiles is crowing and gesturing towards Mr. Argent. 

“Huh?” Scott doesn’t let her get out of his sight. She is _really_ familiar and even though he knows it could be bad idea when surrounded by a cacophony of excited kids, he concentrates and _sniffs_ —

“That’s his ex,” Stiles is flailing with excitement. “Well the ex of the guy he’s dressed at, that is, she’s dressed as her—”

It hits Scott full in the face, unmistakable even under all the glitter and perfume. “Dude, that’s _Peter_!”

He can hear the skip in Mr. Argent’s steady heartbeat even over Stiles’ high-pitched yelp as the air around them begins to shimmer. 

****

Oh. _Oh_. Peter’s smirk widens as he struts forward on his six-inch stiletto heels, blood red lips pulling back to bare his teeth. His choice of outfit could not have been more perfect had he planned it this way. 

No, the fact that Chris Argent is dressed up as John Constantine is an unexpected boon, a sign of some kind of providence. 

Blue eyes meet his and Peter scents the air even as he cuts around the last of the milling children, deftly avoiding sticky little hands trying to grab at the tails of his coat. He knows he looks resplendent, the sequins glittering in the dim light as he makes his way over to Argent.

“Peter!” It’s not Argent who speaks. it’s Scott, the true alpha’s veterinarian costume—complete with a worn-out Pound Puppy doll—both unimaginative yet befitting. 

“Scott,” Peter acknowledges but his eyes do not leave the back of Argent’s head. How must it gall him to keep his back turned to a wolf, but even now Peter can hear his heartbeat spike. He had not missed the conversation between misters McCall and Stilinski earlier, and he knows that Chris knows just what he will see if— _when_ he turns around. 

“Didn’t Derek tell you to _stay away from the children_?” Stiles is the one who speaks up, all bravado and staccato heartbeat under a frankly ridiculous red riding hood costume that’s clearly meant for someone who has breasts and shaves their legs. Tsk. Children these days.

“Does Lola know you’re wearing _that_?” 

He leaves Stiles to his sputtering and nods at Scott, acknowledging the alpha who is regarding him warily and trying very hard to keep his eyes on Peter’s face. But it’s Argent who has his full attention; he came here for a reason and he’ll be damned—well, more damned—if he leaves without a satisfactory reaction from the hunter. 

“Well, well, who do we have here?” Peter’s voice is breathy when he speaks. 

He can see Argent’s shoulders tense under the trenchcoat that’s no doubt hiding enough weapons to take down an entire hostile pack. He can almost smell the indecisiveness and regret wafting from the hunter before the man slowly turns around, bright blue eyes meeting his. 

Argent has to look up to meet his eyes, and Peter quite likes it. 

There is a moment of hesitation before the hunter speaks. Peter expects a gruff _Hale_ , or an admonishment in tune of what Stiles said to mask the strain Peter can see on the hunter’s face, the way he’s fighting to not to let his eyes take in _all_ of Peter in this outfit. “Zatanna.” 

Well, now. Argent might not be a gentleman, but he knows how to treat a female impersonator. 

“Christopher,” Peter purrs. He almost said _John_ but the name doesn’t fit right on his lips, not with Argent. He slowly closes the distance between them, hips swaying with each step until they are almost close enough to touch, that he can smell the sweat prickling on the back of Argent’s neck, the arousal he is trying to tamp down on. 

“For f— Christ, there are _children_ here.” Argent’s voice is low, too low for mere human ears. 

Peter smirks. “That’s what you are concerned about?” 

There’s something moving at the edges of his vision, a haze—

***

John blinks and comes face to face with Zatanna. “Bloody Hell!” 

“I remember you being taller.” 

“Well, love, you’re usually not a drag queen.” Not that it’s a problem for him, not with the way he’s chubbed up in his trousers. 

And it goes downhill from there. Apparently, Zatanna is currently a _werewolf _drag queen, but the body John appears to be in has excellent reflexes and an arsenal hidden under the folds of the coat when her control slips.__

__Things only get stranger from there on, and for John that’s saying something. By the time they get away from the sprogs, escorted by another werewolf and his little red riding hood sidekick, to somewhere a little more private, even if it is just the parking lot behind some big trucks, he’s gagging for a smoke but apparently the bloke—Argent, that’s what the kid called him before they realized he wasn’t home—is one of those your body's a temple types because he doesn’t have a pack on him._ _

__“Slow down, squirt, and tell me just _what the sodding hell_ happened here.”_ _

__The kid in the ridiculous red hood takes a deep breath and starts babbling._ _

__In the end it’s quite simple, for which John is grateful. He doesn’t want these fucking _kids_ having to deal with this fuckery. Getting dragged across dimensions because someone got dressed up for All Hallows Eve in the wrong bloody coat. _ _

__There’s a receipt in John’s coat pocket and he picks it as a starting point, letting synchronicity lead him first into Zatanna’s waistcoat where a matching label is found and then down the street. From there on, it’s a cursed shop, a shopkeeper who’s watched too much television, and foci that’s not gonna be easy to break, even for the werewolves. _Teen Wolves._ He’s pretty sure he saw that movie once. _ _

__Christ, he needs a cigarette. None of these little bastards smoke, and the _look_ the one in the white coat gave him was something else. At least Argent had a flask of good scotch in his pocket, one that he’s now sharing with Zatanna as they watch the kids slowly but surely break down the cage around the spell components._ _

__“Damn, I don’t think I can get drunk,” she says mournfully. “Waste of good booze.”_ _

__“Well in that case, love—” John nabs the flask back and throws the rest down in one big swallow. Argent is gonna appreciate it once he gets his body back, having something to soften the blow. And if he doesn’t, well, John won’t be here to see it, will he now?_ _

__Zatanna laughs and puts her hand on his arm. “John. It’s good to see you again.” The _with no one dying_ remains unsaid._ _

__John is pretty sure he knows where this is going, but he figures Argent isn’t gonna mind, not with the semi he was sporting when John showed up._ _

__The kiss starts out soft, more a thank-you than a real kiss, but _fuck_ it’s been a while and they were always so good together. His hands come up to tangle in her hair and she moans into the kiss when he pushes her into the wall, again surprised just how _tall_ she is like this. _ _

__She tastes like alcohol and mint and _magic_ , her arms coming around him as she pulls him to her hungrily. _ _

__He can barely hear the sound of breaking glass over her moans, hear the cry of _finally—__ _

__******_ _

__The tiny little glass statue of a monkey giving the finger shatters under the heel of Scott’s boot; it took them forever to get it out of the mountain ash lined box-vault-thing, but once it breaks he can almost _taste_ it in the air. _ _

__Across the room Danielle blinks and her shoulders slump. There’s a marked change in her scent as she slowly starts to look more like herself and less like the character who took over her body because of the brooch she bought at the shop. It is not a physical change, it is something else, something Scott’s alpha eyes can see as he flashes them._ _

__“That was _unreal_ ,” Danielle says, eyes wide. _ _

__Beside him, Stiles hefts his now-dented baseball bat. “Still feel like you want to _treat yo self_?” _ _

__Danielle give him a withering glare and a huff, flipping her scarf over her shoulder, But Scott can see that she’s back to herself, can see the magic dissipating in the air fainter and more indistinct with every passing second._ _

__Scott sighs in relief and turns to where _John_ and _Zatanna_ had excused themselves from the actual work, only to stop on his tracks and gawk. _ _

__“Shit, it didn’t work on them;” Stiles says behind him, voice full of horrified fascination as they watch Chris’ hand slip under Peter’s tailcoat to cup the wolf’s sequin-covered ass._ _

__Scott blinks, flashing into alpha vision again. There is not a trace of the spell’s magic on them,; all he can see is the odd tinge that always clings to Peter, an aftereffect of his resurrection. He can see a man and a wolf, the infrared heat signatures of their bodies and it’s too much, he blinks again, returning to normal sigh. Which... isn't really an improvement, not when he is suddenly acutely aware of all the noises they make and the scent of heavy arousal in the air._ _

__“It did.”_ _

__“You mean - “_ _

__“Yeah,” Scott turns away, absolutely determined to _not_ to witness what is going on. Liam can't just sit on the sorcerer in the front room all night. “Lets just leave them to it.” _ _

__They hurry out, leaving Mr. Argent and Peter behind when Scott hears the tell-tale sound of a zipper, he yelps and slams the door behind them hard enough to dent the frame._ _

__Ooops. His mom is going to kill him if he has to pay for damages._ _

__***_ _

__Peter blinks when Chris pulls back; he has a hard time focusing his eyes on the hunter, meeting the ice blue gaze clouded with lust. Peter licks his lips, feels the redness and the fact that his carefully applied lipstick is either gone or smeared all over his face. The hint of red makeup clinging on Chris’ lips as a result of their kisses is fetching enough to make it worth having to apply it all again._ _

__“So that happened,” He says as he tries to get his breath back._ _

__Chris groans. “Bloody Hell.”_ _

__Peter quirks an eyebrow. “After-effects, Christopher?”_ _

__Chris shakes his head,m almost rueful. “Some, maybe. I don’t know. Fuck, I’m craving a cigarette”_ _

__They are pressed so close together it’s making Peter rather uncomfortable in his panties; tucking and frottage do _not_ go well together. It didn‘t matter a few moments ago, didn’t matter when he had Chris’ tongue down his throat and those broad hands were grabbing his ass, working on his clothing and not tentatively resting on his hips. _ _

__Chris clears his throat “You know, he feels guilty. For what happened to her father.”_ _

__Of all the things Chris could have said, that is not the one Peter expected. But it hits a chord inside him, an emotional echo of his unwanted passenger._ _

__“She knows,” he says slowly. The feeling is... not as alien as he’d like. It is almost comforting, despite the rage that is simmering inside him form the violation, the urge for roaring revenge that’s slowly coalescing inside him and needs an outlet of some kind and soon. “She knows.”_ _

__He doesn’t say, she forgives, because she does and he knows it, but _Constantine_ should know it, too. The ironic, yet fitting echo of their own hard-edged grief, of Kate, of the fire. Of the days and years that followed. Peter is in no place to put it into words now, but he knows this is important, this is a linchpin moment, brought to them by something as appalling a second-hand forgiveness. _ _

__Peter makes his choice and leans down to kiss Chris again._ _

__When he pulls back Chris looks at him, a little dazed, a lot hungry, his shoulders slowly losing the tension Peter knows h nothing to do with excitement._ _

__Peter grins and deftly slips away from the wall, away from Chis. _For now_. “Come now, Christopher, we have places to go, people to see.” _ _

__**_ _

__“Oh, Pippa, you look fabulous!” Lola exclaims the moment they come into her view. “Who’s this handsome Daddy you brought along?”_ _

__“Ladies, I’d like you to meet Christopher.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> The line about knowing how to treat a female impersonator is a deliberate reference to Monty Python


End file.
